


The Doubt

by squirenonny



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: (for chapter 2), (for chapter 3; see chapter notes), (for chapter 5), 31 Days of Sadfic, CFSWF, Canonical Character Death, Elhokar has social anxiety, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, WoR spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirenonny/pseuds/squirenonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through all the politics, the assassins, the wars, there is one constant in Elhokar's reign: the Doubt, which reminds him of all the reasons he should not be king.</p>
<p>Written for CFSWF 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crown Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkandpaperhowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperhowl/gifts), [themalhambird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=themalhambird).



Elhokar stopped in the doorway to the throne room and very nearly turned around. The chamber was empty—for now—except for the guards spaced along the walls and flanking the throne, but Elhokar could hear the shuffle of lighteyes gathering in the antechamber, waiting for an audience.

An audience with _him_.

Storms, Elhokar was going to be sick. Wouldn’t that be just perfect? His first time on the throne called off on account of the Crown Prince’s nervous stomach. The thought sent a cold curl of humiliation down his center, which didn’t help with the queasiness at all.

Abruptly he remembered his mother behind him. She’d stopped when he did, but her gaze was a spear between his shoulders. Elhokar’s cheeks burned, and he forced himself to step into the room. Could he pass his hesitation off as excitement, or solemn reflection? That sounded kingly, didn’t it?

He doubted his mother would be fooled. She was a shrewd woman, and she knew him too well. Surely she could see the panic knotting up in his chest, the heat settling into his ears. All those eyes on him! Eighteen Weepings, and Elhokar still got weak in the knee at the thought of public speaking.

Navani waited for Elhokar to seat himself before taking the queen’s throne beside him. She moved with slow deliberation, her hands perfectly still in her lap, freehand over safehand. Next to her, Elhokar looked like somebody had pulled a darkeyed merchant off the streets, stuck a crown on his head, and told him to act the part.

Elhokar straightened, trying to match his mother’s expression. Her eyes flicked his way, and he flinched. Why had he thought he could pull that off? He must look ridiculous.

At least he managed to keep his face bland—mostly—as he met Navani’s gaze.

“Relax,” she said. “You’re in control here, Elhokar. Make them feel it.”

Elhokar nodded, though inside he felt like he was six again. Even wrapped in diplomatic words, his mother’s criticism stung. Was she already wishing she’d decided to sit audience alone while Gavilar and Dalinar were off hunting greatshells? This was the first time Gavilar had left Kholinar since Elhokar came of age, and his parents had decided it was time he start taking charge.

He’d known it would be a disaster from the beginning.

_No._ Elhokar tightened his hands on the arms of his father’s throne— _his_ throne; he had to start thinking that way. This was going to be fine. He’d been accompanying his father to important functions for years now, and though he’d never actually _made_ any official decisions, he’d offered his opinion (usually in private), and his father had been—had seemed—proud of his ability.

Besides, with Navani there to offer her aid and control any lighteyes who got out of hand, there wasn’t much that could go wrong. Most of them had probably come to talk to _her_ anyway. Who would want to talk to the prince over the queen, especially when that prince was Elhokar?

_Breathe._

Elhokar inhaled for a count of five, held it long enough to send a fleeting prayer to the Almighty, then breathed out. He nodded to the doorman.

“You can do this, Elhokar,” Navani whispered just before the first man was shown in.

Elhokar wished she didn’t sound so much like she was calming a spooked chull.

He forgot his mother as soon as the petitioners entered the throne room. Or at least he pushed her to the back of his mind; he couldn’t completely ignore her eyes watching him, waiting for a sign that she needed to take over. He almost wished she saw that sign now, before he made a fool of himself.

Elhokar recognized the man—both men, actually, for a second man had entered behind the first. They were fifth or sixth dahn, but he hadn’t memorized their names yet. That was his mother’s lesson, more than his father’s: know everyone’s names, even if they didn’t expect you to. Especially then. Minor allies would be pleased, hidden enemies intimidated, and no one would be offended.

Would these men be offended? Storms, how many lighteyes was he _supposed_ to know by now?

Elhokar scrambled to remember how his father conducted these audiences as the footman announced them. Too late Elhokar realized he should have been listening more closely. He’d missed their names, and now they certainly _would_ be offended.

Elhokar waved for the man who had entered first to speak. Wasn’t he forgetting something? The pinch in the man’s brow said that he was, but Elhokar’s mind was a total blank. Maybe he’d been expecting Navani to conduct the audience. More likely he’d been expecting Elhokar to have his father’s confidence, and was disappointed.

_Prove them wrong._

Easy enough to think. Harder to believe, with the Doubt nattering in his ear. Elhokar couldn’t face the dissecting stare of the tall, bearded man who was talking now, nor the open curiosity on the thinner, paler face of the man hanging ten feet back. Elhokar’s gaze dropped to the first man’s boots before he caught himself and fixed it instead on a mural of a greatshell hunt on the wall. Better to looked disinterested than unconfident.

His mother stirred, drawing his attention, and jerked her chin ever-so-slightly toward the petitioners.

Elhokar didn’t sigh, but he did steel himself before turning back to the complaint—something about the gaunt man stealing the bearded one’s horse. The gaunt man, of course, denied it. He’d borrowed the horse for a survey of his land—he’d brought his son along, you see, but he only owned one horse; surely that wasn’t a crime.

“It was bandits, Your Majesty,” the scrawny man said, wringing his hands. “I came out to the stable and the horse was gone. It’s lucky my son was out for a ride, or I’d have lost my own horse, too.” Was he looking at Navani? Elhokar’s face heated. He hoped it looked angry and not embarrassed.

The bearded man whirled around, starting in again on the string of accusations he’d already made—more heated this time, and with less proof. Not that he’d had much to begin with. If he had, he’d have gone to the judges. Elhokar suspected he never would have brought this problem before Gavilar; a king had more important things to deal with.

A prince, evidently, did not.

Elhokar raised a hand the way he’d seen his father do a hundred times. The gesture usually brought instant silence. If Elhokar had his father’s presence, it might have worked the same this time—although with the bearded man’s back turned, that wasn’t certain.

Navani cleared her throat softly but meaningfully, and both men fell silent and turned to face the throne. Navani nodded for Elhokar to go ahead. He opened his mouth—

And the words wouldn’t come.

It was all there in his head. The bearded man made a compelling argument, and the other looked guilty enough to run, except that his eyes kept flicking to the guards standing in the shadows. He might not be guilty, but Elhokar had little doubt. He was of half a mind to make the gaunt man pay the cost of the stolen horse, with the promise it would be returned if the thieves were caught—that ought to make the missing horse turn up quicker than anything.

A neat solution, inside his head, but it didn’t seem so clever with all those eyes watching. The bearded man was calling for a stiffer penalty for the inconvenience of replacing the horse. The gaunt man surely would protest the judgment. Elhokar glanced at his mother. She would have her own opinion on the matter; if they disagreed, would she contradict him here in court? Or only later correct him and see to fixing his blunder?

Breathing suddenly seemed a complicated thing. Speech? Elhokar could have laughed, but his throat was too tight, even, for that.

_I’m the one passing judgment,_ he thought, angry at himself. Angry at the lines of fire spreading the fear from his center into his limbs. _I’m the prince. I’m the law._

So why did it feel like he was the one on trial?

Distantly, he heard his mother pronounce judgment: nearly the same sentence Elhokar had been considering, but Navani ordered the gaunt man—Viniev was his name—to give his horse to replace the stolen one until the other could be recovered.

She dismissed them, gesturing to the doorman to wait before sending in the next petitioner. The door had barely closed behind Viniev and the other man before Elhokar was on his feet, striding for the door behind the throne. His mother called out after him, but he hurried on, desperate to outpace his guards.

_You’re weak,_ said the Doubt in the dark corners of his mind _. You’re weak and they know it._

He laughed, all but running through the deserted corridors. One or two servants saw him, and their disdainful looks spurred him on. King? _Him_? The world would sooner see another Desolation.

He reached his room at last, slammed the door and leaned against it. Word would spread. Servants would gossip and guards would whisper and lighteyes would hide it behind velvet words and blithe smiles, but soon the whole palace would know. Elhokar Kholin, not yet king and already falling from power.


	2. The Assassin in White

Elhokar was king.

Oh, _storms_ , Elhokar was king.

When he heard the news, he locked himself in his room—first because his father was dead and he needed to rage and cry and mourn surrounded by a slurry of papers and fabrials and spheres that he’d flung across his chambers when the pain crested and spilled over the walls he’d spent the last two years building up.

But then, sitting on the floor with his back against his bed, his knees pulled tight against his chest, his breath rattling loud in his ears, his mind started working again.

And when he realized he was king now, he couldn’t summon anger or pain, just a terror like a stormwall that dwarfed him and drowned him and made him close his eyes against what he knew was coming.

The eyes of a nation on him.

The eyes of the Parshendi on him, weighing him, judging _him_ to see if they should flee or if they should attack now while Alethkar was weak.

The eyes of the world on him, waiting for the princedoms to fracture, waiting to pounce and to consume all that Elhokar’s father had given his life to build.

The eyes of the court on him, the incompetent prince now an incompetent king. No one had mentioned his first, disastrous day on the throne to his face in more than a year. No one had dared, as long as Gavilar was there. Still it hung just out of sight like a glyph on his forehead. _Halah_. Failure.

* * *

By dawn he had gathered himself and shoved his anxiety down where it couldn’t crush him. (Please, Almighty, don’t let it crush him.)

Highprince Sadeas called the meeting, for which Elhokar was simultaneously grateful and ashamed. Elhokar, as king, should have taken charge, but if he was honest with himself—and he didn’t have the energy now for anything else—he wouldn’t have known who to invite. Dalinar and Sadeas, of course. But what about the rest of the Highprinces? Could he trust them? Did he dare insinuate that he didn’t?

Sadeas’s solution was simple: a meeting of all ten Highprinces, but only after an informal gathering of a much smaller group. Dalinar, Sadeas, Navani, Elhokar, the captain of the King’s Guard—Elhokar’s guard captain now. Somehow, that managed to hit him afresh, even after a dozen greetings of “King Elhokar” and “Your Majesty” on the short walk from his bedchambers to the private dining room where Sadeas had called the meeting.

Sadeas and Navani were talking quietly in the corner when Elhokar arrived. They fell silent at once. Sadeas bowed. Navani came over and took Elhokar’s hand. Her red eyes told him she hadn’t slept any more than he had.

Only Dalinar looked more miserable. He looked at Elhokar through shadowed, teary eyes, his face gaunt, his fingers white-knuckled on a steaming mug that still looked full.

Suddenly he stood and bowed low to Elhokar. Lower than Sadeas had. “I should have been there.”

The emotion in his voice brought a lump to Elhokar’s throat. Sadeas’s face went even redder than normal as his eyes dropped to the floor. Navani blinked rapidly, even as she twisted to put her back to Dalinar.

“It should never have happened to begin with,” she said, her voice with the same raw edge as Dalinar’s.

Guilt.

Elhokar was so emotionally spent from the night of grief and fear that it was almost a surprise to recognize the emotion in his mother’s eyes. It looked ready to swallow her, looked like it might have swallowed Dalinar already. Elhokar needed just a brief look to see the same guilt mirrored in Sadeas’s eyes.

They all blamed themselves.

Elhokar…didn’t.

It had seemed clear to him, just a moment ago. He hadn’t known about the assassin. He had no part in arranging the guard. Even if he had, he couldn’t have stopped the Assassin in White. If even half the stories were true, no one could have.

Elhokar wished it hadn’t happened. He wished his father was still there, still holding the weight of the crown.

But he felt no guilt.

The Doubt seeped out around the seal he’d fixed over it. It snaked through his thoughts like vapor, blurring the convictions he’d brought to this meeting. He looked around and he saw three people who had loved Gavilar Kholin and who felt guilt at watching him die.

When they looked back, did they see his clear conscience? Did they think he didn’t care?

Desperately, Elhokar beat back the creeping thoughts. _I am king. I can’t let myself worry about what they think._

But he did.

The others quickly took charge in the meeting. Their guilt drove them to action, made them hard and urgent, pushed them to a decisiveness that Elhokar found elusive at the best of times. He was lost without his father’s guidance, but they knew where they were going. They knew exactly what needed to be done.

And it was easy, so easy, to let them lead. Alethkar needed a competent ruler. The Highprinces would never accept Elhokar on his own—he was still too much a child in their eyes, too inexperienced. ( _Your own fault_ , the Doubt whispered in his ear. _You’ve been running from authority for the last two years. You’ve cut your own legs out from under you._ )

Maybe, though. Maybe with Dalinar and Sadeas supporting him he could salvage his reign. Learn from them, and then, slowly, stand on his own.

It was easier that way. The eyes of the world on him, but judging plans laid by those much more clever than Elhokar.

He could handle that, he thought, until he learned to be king.


	3. The Blackthorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 69 of WoK is one of the most painful chapters in any Sanderson book for me to read, especially as I’ve come to identify with Elhokar. It takes place after the Battle of the Tower, when Dalinar comes to confront Elhokar about the fake assassination attempt. When Dalinar physically attacks him, to the point that Elhokar honestly believes he’s about to die.
> 
> Yes, Elhokar messed up. Yes, Dalinar is overstressed. That his patience snaps is understandable.
> 
> The way he treats Elhokar is nonetheless inexcusable
> 
> My intent here isn’t to condemn Dalinar as a character or as a person. It IS to condemn his actions in this chapter. I love Dalinar; we’ve had plenty of hints that he used to be a pretty terrible person and that he has worked--is still working--to be better. I admire that.
> 
> But I think it’s also important to acknowledge that he screwed up here, and that it hurt Elhokar. This chapter is the reason I’ve said before that Dalinar has lost Elhokar’s trust. It’s the reason Elhokar’s (potential) friendship with Kaladin and with Lopen and his family is so important to me.
> 
> This chapter is not fun. It’s uncomfortable. It's painful. I hesitated over whether or not to post it at all, but since it’s essentially canon (the dialogue and the sequence of events are taken directly from the novel, but filtered through Elhokar’s eyes.) I don’t feel right staying quiet.
> 
> That being said, **if you’re triggered by depictions of violence, emotional abuse, or the like, it’s best that you skip this chapter.** You can safely pick up with chapter 4 (if you so desire) without missing any crucial details and with only a passing, nonspecific reference to it in chapter 5.

The door snapped shut, drawing Elhokar’s attention up from his maps. All the Highprinces and all their officers studied maps and had done since coming to the Shattered Plains, but Elhokar still jerked back instinctively, afraid someone would see him and think he was reading.

He wore his Shardplate now, out of habit. It made him feel steadier, more in control. When everyone in the warcamps wanted you dead, you had to take certain precautions.

Steeling himself for a confrontation—six years as king, and that hadn’t gotten any easier—he turned. “Ah, Uncle,” he said, relaxing just a bit. “Good.” There was always the Doubt, even with Dalinar. Especially with Dalinar, sometimes. When he looked at Elhokar, was he comparing him to Gavilar?

Elhokar was uncomfortably aware of how he fared in that competition.

 _Not now,_ he told the Doubt. “I had wanted to speak with you. Do you know of these rumors about you and my mother?” Elhokar was glad for the Plate, which hid his shiver. Not so much for the purported relationship, though that was certainly unsettling. Worse was the idea of people _looking_ at them, _judging_ them. If it had been Elhokar, he would have stopped the rumors at once.

Or tried, at least. Elhokar had never figured out how to manage what the people talked about, not the way his mother and his uncle could.

“I realize that nothing untoward could be happening—” _Storms,_ he hoped nothing was happening “—but I _do_ worry about what people think. Honestly, Uncle, I’m growing very intolerant of your reputation in camp. What they are saying reflects poorly on me, you see, and…” He paused, taking in Dalinar’s face. The usual indulgent smile was gone, replaced with something that looked almost…angry?

Elhokar went cold. What had he done? How had he offended Dalinar? A dozen explanations flashed through his mind, each as ludicrous as the last. _Storms_ , he wished his uncle would stop looking at him like that.

His stomach roiled as he turned to face Dalinar head-on. Plate-enhanced legs tensed to run. _Don’t be absurd. It’s_ Dalinar.

“Uncle? Is everything all right?” His thoughts went to the messenger he’d turned away earlier. That hadn’t actually been important, had it? He’d been caught up in thoughts of the war and the Highprinces and assassins. He hadn’t thought—

Elhokar barely had time to form his thoughts into cautious words, crafted to make himself seem stronger, more stoic. He _had_ to get better at acting the part if he ever wanted people to respect him. Stormfather! They wouldn’t respect him if he turned the world on its head, but at least he could keep them from seeing how much their disdain shook him.

Dalinar’s foot connected with his chest, Plate on Plate, a blow strong enough to fling Elhokar back. Something—the desk—crumpled beneath him.

 _I knew it!_ shouted the Doubt, almost more relieved than afraid.

The rest of him was pure, burning terror. _He_ is _trying to kill me!_

Dalinar kicked him again, and Elhokar began to scream. Dalinar wanted him dead. _Dalinar._ His uncle. The man who had become like his father. Elhokar had known, had felt the resentment, but he’d told himself it was a lie. A lie like everything else. Everyone seemed to hate him, seemed to want him out of the way, but logic said that wasn’t possible.

He’d hoped he’d been wrong about Dalinar, at least.

A kick to the side knocked the breath out of Elhokar, silenced fear’s racing monologue in his head, if only for a moment. Then he was airborne, foot catching on the rug, flipping him onto his back. A chair splintered around him.

He scrambled to his feet, breath a tangle in his throat, gaping at Dalinar. At the Blackthorn. This, _this_ was what his enemies saw, a hard face in gleaming Shardplate—battered Shardplate—eyes blue death, vengeance incarnate, as implacable as a highstorm.

Words spilled from Elhokar’s mouth, empty words, pleas for mercy or for guards, accusations, apologies. Elhokar didn’t care. Words had never saved an enemy of the Blackthorn.

Elhokar ran for the door.

Dalinar slammed bodily into him, knocking him to the ground. Elhokar hit, rolled, and reached frantically for his Blade. As fast as his heart was pounding, it formed almost instantly. Dalinar kicked it away.

 _Dead,_ he thought, swinging his fist at Dalinar. _I’m dead. Not even an assassin. Not even a knife in the dark._ Dalinar grabbed his fist and _pulled_. Elhokar lurched forward—and met Dalinar’s fist coming the other way. He felt his breastplate crack and writhed.

Another blow to the chest, the force of it stealing his breath. The next shattered the breastplate entirely, cold air rushing in and freezing the sweat on his skin.

Dalinar dropped him.

Elhokar lay struggling, weak without the Plate’s focus, all but immobile. “ _Guards!_ ” he shrieked. _Useless_ , said the Doubt. _They won’t come._ Did they laugh at the terror in his voice?

He screamed anyway, and reached again for his Blade.

Again, Dalinar knocked it out of his hands.

Elhokar screamed for guards who would just as soon see him dead.

“They won’t come, Elhokar.” Dalinar’s voice was too soft to be a threat, but his eyes were hard and unyielding, his face the mask he wore into battle. “They’re my men, and I left them with orders not to enter—or let anyone else enter—no matter what they heard. Even if that included pleas for help from you.”

The words hit harder than Dalinar’s physical blows. Not because they caught Elhokar off guard—no, he’d known for years that Dalinar hated him, that his guards were ashamed to watch over a king so weak. They would rather guard Dalinar. They would rather he be king.

No, the words hurt _because_ Elhokar had known them for true, and because he’d wanted _so desperately_ to believe them a lie.

“They are my men, Elhokar,” Dalinar repeated, just to twist the knife. “I trained them. I placed them there. They’ve always been loyal to me.”

 _I know!_ his mind screamed. “Why, Uncle?” No, that was the wrong question. He knew. He knew a thousand reasons why. Because he lived while his father had died. Because he had the throne Dalinar deserved. Because he was weak, foolish, shameful. Because everyone looked at Elhokar and saw a joke, and they laughed, and Dalinar was named a fool for tolerating him. Six years he’d stood by, but now he’d had enough. Now he—now he was— “What are you doing? Please, tell me.”

The fear tied a noose around his neck at that question, but Elhokar asked anyway. If Dalinar was going to kill him, let it be done with! Tears filled his eyes at the thought. _You wish I’d died in my father’s place._

Dalinar leaned down. “The girth on your horse during the hunt. You cut it yourself, didn’t you?”

Elhokar’s blood became ice.

The girth. The _storming_ girth! Elhokar felt like a cremling beneath Dalinar’s glare. The man’s steel voice resounded in his ears as he recounted Elhokar’s plan—a foolish plan born of fear. Fear of assassins, fear of the eyes of a nation, watching and waiting for him to fall.

Fear, most of all, that no one would listen, that no one would care.

“Someone was trying to kill me, but you wouldn’t believe! I…I worried it might be you!” The Doubt had whispered Dalinar’s name along with every other, but Elhokar had never believed. Not really. He just hadn’t seen the harm in making sure.

“You cut your own strap,” Dalinar said, “to create a visible, obvious-seeming attempt on your life. Something that would get me or Sadeas to investigate.”

Elhokar's scalp tingled with fear and shame, but he nodded. He’d lied enough about this--How did you tell your uncle you’d accidentally framed him for an attempt on your life? He’d hoped it would all blow over before it got out of hand.

It hadn’t, and Elhokar had no one but himself to blame for Dalinar’s anger now.

Dalinar sighed. He was, Elhokar thought, coming through his anger. The thought gave him hope.

“Don’t you realize what you did, Elhokar? You brought suspicion on me from across the camps! You gave Sadeas an opportunity to destroy me.”

Elhokar wilted beneath that glare. “I had to know,” he whispered. What else could he say? He had been a fool, an incompetent fool, he knew that, but he hadn’t meant it to go this far. He just wanted to _know_ where he stood, for once in his life. “I couldn’t trust anyone.”

“What of the cracked gemstones in your Shardplate? Did you place those too?”

“No,” said Elhokar.

“Then maybe you did uncover something. I guess you can’t be completely blamed.”

“Then you’ll let me up?”

“No.” Dalinar set a hand against Elhokar’s chest and pressed, just hard enough for Elhokar to feel the strength within the Plate. Elhokar froze, staring up into those unfeeling eyes. “If I push, you die. Your ribs crack like twigs, your heart is smashed like a grape. Nobody would blame me. They all whisper that the Blackthorn should have taken the throne for himself years ago. Your guard is loyal to me. There would be nobody to avenge you. Nobody would care.”

Each sentence pushed Elhokar a little harder against the floor, wringing the air from his lungs. Dalinar spoke as though he thought Elhokar did not know all this already. As though he hadn’t taken the throne knowing that the world had judged him and found him lacking.

All except Dalinar, who had come as close as anyone to believing in Elhokar. Who had stood by him, who had protected him, who had guided him and corrected him and supported him and sworn that he was loyal and that he cared. Elhokar had trusted him as much as he knew how. It didn’t quiet the Doubt, but he had chosen to believe.

Dalinar pressed down a little harder on Elhokar’s chest. The last puff of air escaped him and he lay empty, helpless, beneath his uncle’s weight.

“Do you understand?”

“No!” A shrill cry, barely contained panic. He’d thought he understood. He’d thought he could trust his head over his Doubt, but he’d been _wrong_ , and he _didn’t know why_.

Dalinar sighed, but stood. Breath rushed into Elhokar’s lungs, beating back the shadows squirming at the edges of his vision. He breathed, and reveled in the act, but the weight had not lifted from his chest with Dalinar’s withdrawal.

“Your paranoia may be unfounded,” Dalinar said, “or it may be well founded. Either way, you need to understand something. I am not your enemy.”

“So you’re not going to kill me?” Elhokar’s voice was steady; the panic had retreated with Dalinar’s hand: gone, but not wholly, leaving a weight on his chest and a churning in his center. He felt hollowed out, gutted, cut open like a chasmfiend, his gemheart pried loose.

The look Dalinar gave him was unreadable. “Storms, no! I love you like a son, boy.”

Elhokar had heard the words before. Always before, they had chased away the Doubt and given him something approaching peace.

Now, for the first time, they sounded like a lie.

Elhokar’s hand found his chest, felt the invisible weight where Dalinar had pressed down. “You…have very odd paternal instincts.” The Doubt whispered in his ear, but Elhokar could not work himself up to anger, not now. Not when his heart ached to believe Dalinar as he always had before.

“I spent years following you,” Dalinar said. “I gave you my loyalty, my devotion, and my counsel. I swore myself to you—promising myself, _vowing_ to myself, that I would never covet Gavilar’s throne. All to keep my heart loyal. Despite this, you don’t trust me. You pull a stunt like that one with the girth, implicating me, giving your own enemies position against you without knowing it.”

Elhokar shrank back from his uncle’s looming figure.

“Well, now you know. If I’d wanted to kill you, Elhokar, I could have done it a dozen times over. A _hundred_ times over. It appears you won’t accept loyalty and devotion as proof of my honesty. Well, if you act like a child, you get treated like one. You know now, for a fact, that I don’t want you dead. For if I did, I would have crushed your chest and been done with it!”

Their eyes met, and Elhokar crumpled under the full weight of his failure.

“Now, _do you understand_?”

Elhokar nodded, grim-faced and screaming within. He understood. Dalinar hated him, despised him with every corner of his soul.

At least he did not want Elhokar dead.


	4. The Watchers

_Why did I think this was a good idea?_

Elhokar hovered in the doorway of his mother’s study, the Doubt pushing him back, the grief pulling him onward. Shallan Davar had arrived in the warcamps today, bringing confirmation of Jansah’s death.

Another wave of pain took him. He grabbed the edge of the door to keep from swaying, though he’d long since cried his last. He’d known his sister was dead for some time now, or had feared it. Shallan’s words had only confirmed it. It hurt—oh, storms, it hurt—but at least now he knew.

At least now he knew.

“Mother?” Elhokar called, forcing himself into the room. He didn’t know if she wanted comfort, didn’t know how _he_ could comfort her if she did, but she was his family and he owed it to her to try.

Navani turned, forcing a smile at the sight of him. Elhokar motioned for the guards to wait outside, then joined his mother at a small table stacked with notes and a pair of fabrials Elhokar didn’t recognize.

Pulling the second chair around beside Navani’s, Elhokar sat. He was uncomfortably aware of his body, of the restless motion of his hands, of the bend in his back from too many burdens multiplied by the Doubt telling him everyone saw him cracking. His eyes were red, his hair a nest, and his foot kicked idly at a sphere that had rolled under the table.

Navani laid her hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re worried about the Assassin in White, Elhokar, but your uncle and I are going to take care of that.”

Elhokar’s head snapped up, indignation pushing his anxiety down, down and out of his way. “I didn’t come about the Assassin.”

Surprise stole across Navani’s face, and then realization. “Ah.”

“She’s dead, Mother.” Elhokar flinched at the edge in his voice. This was not how he’d wanted to start this conversation. “I’ve known it, but you—but now it’s certain, and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

Navani watched him, not speaking, her face unreadable. Elhokar’s ears went hot and his fingers worked more frantically in his lap. He wished she would speak, would give him some clue if she was offended, or if she was grateful, or—storms! She didn’t think he’d come to _her_ for comfort, did she?

Elhokar forced himself to be still. He smothered his pain and let sympathy show through. Not much, not enough to offend, and enough grief with it so she didn’t think him callous. He would take her hand and offer to talk and…no, she would never take him seriously like that. He would embrace her and let her know—storms, no! Elhokar could not imagine anything more awkward. He would…he would…

She was watching him. He felt her eyes on the top of his head, heard her shift to face him more fully. What a wreck he must seem, come to comfort her and caught up inside his own head. He shouldn’t have come here at all. He should go. But how? Could he feign some other appointment? How long did he have to wait before leaving would not be rude?

 _Stop!_ Elhokar’s hands balled into fists in his lap. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the Doubt down. _Stop thinking about yourself for once in your life!_ Why did he always do this? Why, every time he tried to help someone else, did he get so caught up in his own problems? This was not about him.

His eyes caught the smooth metal casing of one of the fabrial’s on his mother’s desk. It reflected his face, warped and stretched, and behind him a shadow with a twisted, inhuman head.

Elhokar spun. He spotted the figure at the edge of his vision, taller than a man and darker than the black of night. It blurred and vanished before he’d finished turning. He could still feel it, though, watching. _Judging._ Staring right into his soul.

“Elhokar?”

Elhokar spun, heart pounding, and found his mother halfway out of her seat, one hand reaching out to him. Almighty above, she must think him crazy. Pity hung in her guarded eyes, and fear.

Her gaze was too much, far more than he could take on top of the silent scrutiny of the symbol-headed creatures. He sensed them around him even now, gathering, whispering. Did they want him dead, too, or had they just come to watch him break?

Elhokar stood, stammered out an apology. He could think of no excuse, but he was beyond saving face now. He turned, and ran.


	5. Captain Kaladin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Words of Radiance_ , Chapter 80, retold from Elhokar's perspective.

_Injured._

That’s what he’d been told. Captain Kaladin was injured and unable to make the journey to the palace.

Elhokar had actually believed it. He was a fool, but he’d believed Kaladin had a legitimate reason for ignoring the summons. He’d taken him at his word, and so when the need to speak with the Captain had grown too great, when a few glasses of wine had dulled the Doubt enough to let him face the judging eyes, Elhokar had called his carriage and gone to the barracks himself.

When he arrived, he found the barracks empty. The injured Captain Kaladin, too weak to come to the palace, was apparently strong enough to walk the camp in the rain. No one seemed to know where he was, how long he’d been gone, or when he would come back.

Feeling ten times the fool, Elhokar entered Kaladin’s quarters to be out of the rain and away from at least most of the eyes.

He waited, the wine’s glow thinning, the Doubt waking up. Coming had been a mistake. At least before, he’d been able to pretend that Kaladin’s avoidance was no front for disdain.

A knot worked itself into his shoulders as he paced the small room, wondering how he could withdraw to the palace without looking even more pitiful. Would waiting for the captain make him look desperate? Or would leaving, admitting he held no authority over his own guards, be worse?

He wished that one-armed Herdazian would stop hovering just outside the door. Gaping, like Elhokar was some sort of spectacle in a menagerie.

“Your Majesty?”

The voice stopped Elhokar’s heart in his chest. He spun, face flaming, toward Kaladin. “Ah, bridgeman.”

An awkward silence settled between them. Kaladin stood erect, using his crutch for balance more than anything. Injured, yes, but not as badly as Elhokar had been led to believe. The captain didn’t even have the decency to look abashed.

He just. Kept. Staring.

“This is really all that Dalinar assigns one of his officers?” The words tumbled out of Elhokar, and he gestured lamely around the room. “That man. He expects everyone to live with his own austerity. It is as if he’s completely forgotten how to enjoy himself.”

The inane joke hung in the air like a dead thing, too weak for even Elhokar to smile at. The captain actually turned to look at Moash, who guarded the door. The Shardbearer’s shrug echoed Kaladin’s contempt.

_His rooms? Stormfather, you’re not here to gossip about his living arrangements!_

Elhokar cleared his throat and tried not to avert his gaze. _Be a king. Make them respect you._ “I was told you were too weak to make the trip to see me. I see that might not be the case.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m not well, but I walk the camp each day to rebuild my strength. I feared that my weakness and appearance might be offensive to the Throne.”

A non-apology worthy of the highest dahn. Elhokar almost laughed.

“You’ve learned to speak politically, I see.” Not that his expression matched his smooth words. The man resented Elhokar’s presence. “The truth is that my command is meaningless, even to a darkeyes. I no longer have authority in the eyes of men.” _If I ever did._

He saw the irritation flash through Kaladin’s eyes and snapped his mouth shut. _He already thinks me a spoiled, whining child. I shouldn’t give him more proof._

“Out, you other two,” he snapped, waving at his guards. “I’d speak to this man alone.”

Elhokar pretended not to notice that the guards—even Taka, who had guarded Elhokar for years—looked to Kaladin for confirmation. But they did leave, closing the door behind them. The weak light of the spheres barely illuminated the cramped space, and Elhokar instinctively searched the shadows for the symbol-headed watchers.

There were none, of course. That was part of the reason he’d come to speak to the captain of his guard.

The other…

“How did you know how to be a hero?”

The question seemed to take Kaladin by surprise, and he leaned more heavily on his crutch. “Your Majesty?”

He was a young man, scarcely older than Renarin, and yet he held himself like a lighteyes twice his age. Command came naturally to Kaladin in a way it never had to Elhokar. He, too, had the eyes of a nation on him, a darkeyed captain, a savior, a legend. Stormblessed.

The looks washed over Kaladin and left no marks. The judgment seemed not even to warrant his attention.

_How?_

“A hero.” Elhokar forced levity into his voice, as if these questions hadn’t kept him up at night, as if he hadn’t been comparing himself to Kaladin as he had compared himself to Gavilar for six years without reprieve. As if the new comparison wasn’t just as dismal as the old. “Everyone loves you, bridgeman. You saved Dalinar, you fought Shardbearers, you came back after falling into the storming chasms! How do you do it? How do you _know_?”

Kaladin blinked. “It’s really just luck, Your Majesty.”

“No, no.” The Doubt was out in full force now, and Elhokar couldn’t remain still. He began to pace, though the small room made him feel caged. “It’s a pattern, though I can’t figure it out. When I try to be strong, I make a fool of myself. When I try to be merciful, people walk all over me. When I try to listen to counsel, it turns out I’ve picked the wrong men! When I try to do everything on my own, Dalinar has to take over lest I ruin the kingdom.”

The familiar weight settled in his chest at the thought of his uncle. He’d spent the last two months trying to appease Dalinar, to lessen the force of his hatred. Instead he’d only made things worse.

“How do people know what to do? Why don’t _I_ know what to do? I was born to this office, given the throne by the Almighty himself!” A convenient lie, one that rang false to Elhokar’s ears. If the Almighty had given Elhokar the throne, then Elhokar might just make Alethkar a nation of heretics.

“Why would he give me the title, but not the capacity? It defies reason. And yet, everyone seems to know things that I do not. My father could rule even the likes of Sadeas—men loved Gavilar, feared him, and served him all at once. I can’t even get a darkeyes to obey a command to come visit the palace! Why doesn’t this work? What do I have to _do_?”

Kaladin looked horrified at the diatribe, and Elhokar almost— _almost_ —wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

Except that it felt so good to speak aloud the Doubt that had haunted him for years.

“Why are you asking me this, Your Majesty?”

 _Because you are the same age I was when I took the throne. Because you’ve been thrust into a position of power like I was, and yet it hasn’t crushed you._ Elhokar didn’t stop pacing. He was wound tighter than ever now, with his words out there for Kaladin to judge.

“You know the secret. I’ve seen how your men regard you; I’ve heard how people speak of you. You’re a _hero_ , bridgeman.” He stopped by Kaladin and seized his arms. “Can you teach me?”

Kaladin looked…startled. Not smug, not disdainful. That was a good sign.

“I want to be a king like my father was. I want to lead men, and I want them to respect me.”

“I don’t… I don’t know if that’s possible, Your Majesty.”

The judgment hit him like a stormwall, froze his bones, made him tremble.

Then, it passed.

Kaladin’s opinion was no less than Elhokar had expected, but… _Storms_ , it was almost a relief to have it said straight out like that. “So you do still speak your mind. Even after the trouble it brought you.” Not at all like the lighteyes. Not like anyone Elhokar had known. He wondered if that was why the watchers stayed away. “Tell me. Do you think me a bad king, bridgeman?”

“Yes.”

Elhokar breathed in. The hurt washed over him again, and he found it more bearable the second time. He’d been so afraid of the criticism, of the judgment. Why? The fear had been so much worse than this.

He released Kaladin with a weak laugh and started toward the door. “Well, I did ask.” _And now I know._ The Doubt, for once, was silent. He knew now what he faced. Not whispers on the edge of hearing, but a challenge delivered to his face. He H“I merely have to win you over as well. I _will_ figure this out. I will be a king to be remembered.”

The captain spoke behind him. “Or you could do what is best for Alethkar, and step down.”

Elhokar stopped. _Step down._ How many times had he thought that? How many times had he seen it in the eyes of his rivals and his allies and even his guards?

No one had ever dared suggest it.

 _It would make everything so much easier_ , the Doubt whispered—not yet gone, after all. Elhokar stamped down on it and glared at Kaladin. “Do _not_ overstep yourself, bridgeman. Bah. I should never have come here.”

“I agree.”

Elhokar reached the door, but stopped before opening it. There was one thing more, the core of his reason for coming. “When you came, the shadows went away.”

“The…shadows?”

“I saw them in mirrors, in the corners of my eyes. I could swear I even heard them whispering, but you frightened them. I haven’t seen them since. There’s something about you. Don’t try to deny it.”

He looked at Kaladin. There was more condescension than real hatred in those dark eyes, and more plain than on any Brightlord’s face. For all the bridgman’s sour attitude, Elhokar could have wished the entire court was more like him. At least then he’d know where he stood.

And perhaps it was foolish, but Elhokar wanted to impress Captain Kaladin more than he wanted to impress any lighteyes, even his uncle. He thought if he could make Kaladin respect him, it would be the most honest respect he would ever find.

“I am sorry for what I did to you. I watched you fight to help Adolin, and then I saw you defend Renarin…and I grew jealous.” Elhokar’s cheeks burned at the admission, but there was little point in holding back now. “There you were, such a champion, so loved. And everyone hates me. I should have gone to fight myself.”

Except that he’d tried that on the plateaus, in the early days of the war, and everyone just called him reckless, irresponsible.

“Instead, I overreacted to your challenge of Amaram. You weren’t the one who ruined our chance against Sadeas. It was me. Dalinar was right. Again.” Elhokar shook his head. “I’m so tired of him being right, and me being wrong. In light of that, I am not at all surprised that you find me a bad king.”

Elhokar opened the door, nodded to the guards, and climbed into his carriage. He held the curtain back as he lurched into motion, watching the door to Kaladin’s quarters. The bridgeman didn’t emerge, but Elhokar didn’t mind.

 _I_ will _change your opinion of me, Captain_ , he thought.

And then, amazingly, he smiled.


End file.
